An Unpresentless Christmas
by See The Light
Summary: Sherlock comes home from a boring case to find that John's brought Christmas to 221B for one of the first years in history.


**Disclaimer: I'm very sorry to say that I do not own Sherlock, but can say safely that if I did, I would mess up his character as badly as I did here. **

**This is based off of another prompt by my lovely friend, and is also part of a collab with said friend, her drawing a picture to go along with it. Check it out! :)**

** jennypoloni1. deviantart #/ d5obgg2**

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Sometimes, he didn't know why he even put the effort in to solve these cases.

In one glance he could tell that the woman's murderer was her husband, seeing as the circles under his eyes indicated a night with no sleep, carefully avoiding the corpse, giving a reason for his sudden insomnia, staying up all night, wracked with guilt. The red rings around his eyes proved that he had a hangover, possibly committing the murder while heavily intoxicated and given the seemingly clean track record, he snapped under weeks of pressure, the slight sink of his shoulders showing that it might be occupation related, or his wife pressuring him for a family, possibly the reason for the murder.

It was all so _simple._

With a slight shake of his head, Sherlock unlocked the door to the apartment, grabbing his scarf, planning to hang it on its usual place on the wall hooks.

However, when the door to the apartment swung open, Sherlock paused, scarf dangling from his right hand.

The apartment was pitch black.

The apartment was never dark.

The apartment was always lit by John's presence as he worked on his blog, perhaps, or curled up on his usual armchair, engrossed in a cheap paperback. If it was not John keeping the apartment bright, it was Mrs. Hudson, puttering around in the kitchen, astonished by the mess that the two men generated after her last visit.

Sherlock's sharp eyes darted around the room, looking for any sign that there was a struggle, or a fight. He could see a faint red glow projected on the wall, perhaps emitted from red wine-

Long, sweater-covered arms enveloped his waist, and Sherlock turned to see John's face, faintly lit by the foyer lights.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," John murmured, grinning. Sherlock gave him his usual half-smile, eyes brightened at the sight of his lover. He looked back, seeing the apartment lit up with Christmas lights, scattered around the wall. He looked back at John.

No matter how hard he tried to analyze him, Sherlock couldn't understand why John was doing this. Easy smile shows that this was not an attempt to salvage anything, what would he be salvaging? And yet, the slight anxiety lines signaled that he wanted him to enjoy this, whatever 'this' was. John let Sherlock go, striding over to the dining table, where instead of the usual clutter, a candle was set in the middle of it, two plates set out on opposite sides with, indeed, glasses of red wine next to them.

Sherlock sat, absently watching John walk to the kitchen and pull a large tray out of the oven.

"Hope you like it. Harry always said I was an awful cook, but I don't think this is too bad," John said, adding various vegetables to two of their best plates, best meaning the ones that _weren't_ broken or experimented on beyond repair. He walked over to the table, dishes in hand, and gently laid the plate in front of Sherlock, whose ice blue eyes were watching him, unreadable. John could see the wheels turning in the man's head, but it was like the wheels were malfunctioning, bringing his thoughts to no conclusion.

"Something on your mind, Sherlock?" John asked, taking his seat across from the man. Sherlock looked up, eyes flickering, John having brought him out of his thoughts.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, looking down at the roast that John had put on his plate, in a neat formation that made Sherlock think of the Christmases of his childhood, spent in snowy parts of Europe, with his parents and Mycroft sitting around the table, arguing about each other's intellects in that playful, family way.

"Well," John swallowed his food, putting his fork down, "I heard you tell Mrs. Hudson that you wouldn't celebrate Christmas with her, hadn't celebrated it for years and wouldn't start now. Then Mycroft kidnaps me and tells me that Christmas was always your favorite time of year, where your parents would take you out to one of those places you'd see on Christmas cards, like Zurich or Oslo and asks me _would I please make Christmas special for his brother?_ Of course, I had already started planning, but I guess that was when I realized I really did want to do this." After his explanation, Sherlock noticed the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks and smiled slightly, starting to cut at his food. It was endearing, to say the least, as he saw John look at him anxiously as he chewed on the meat.

"So?" John asked as Sherlock finally finished the portion. "Do you like it?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock replied, starting to cut another piece. John grinned.

As they finished their dinner, John stood up to collect their plates, stacking them and picking them up. Sherlock stood too, and grabbed John's collar, pressing his lips to his. John froze, nearly dropping the plates, but warmed to him, wishing that he could get the plates out of his arms so he could wrap them around Sherlock. They broke apart, John staring into Sherlock's eyes, the iciness of them seeming to have melted away.

"What was that for?" John asked finally, blinking. Sherlock simply smiled, and looked to the corner of the room.

A large Christmas tree took up a large corner of the flat, the lights blinking like stars, presents stacked underneath the tree's branches.

"I didn't get you anything," Sherlock murmured, smile slowly disappearing. John shrugged.

"Doesn't matter," he replied, taking Sherlock's hand and leading them to the couch. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's unruly curls, walking over to the Christmas tree and filling his arms full of presents. He came back to the couch, dropping them in front of it.

"There's some from Mrs. Hudson, some from Molly, and I think Lestrade might've sneaked one in there too, though he never said." John chuckled softly, thinking of the stern policeman wrapping the present, putting a ribbon around it. Sherlock looked at the presents in silence.

"I didn't get you anything," Sherlock repeated, frowning, blue eyes settling on John, who felt his heart start thrumming faster at the sight of them.

"Fine, Sherlock, if you're so hung up on me being 'presentless'," he half expected Sherlock to correct the word, telling him that there are so many words in the English language that could express what he was feeling, and why must he make up more?

"May I ask for something, then?" John finished, smiling at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled.

"Anything."

"A hug," John murmured, settling on the couch with Sherlock.

"That, my dear John, I can do," Sherlock replied quietly, purple-sleeved arms enveloping John in a warm embrace, pressing his nose to John's shoulder.

And as the clock struck midnight, the fire had been lit, crackling merrily, and the two men were curled up under a warm, red blanket, arms locked around each other, the smiles on their faces even in slumber.

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**Merry Christmas everyone! May we not have to wait so long for the next season!**


End file.
